Sleepwalker
by MooseOnARoof
Summary: Wilson starts sleepwalking, and it leads him somewhere unexpected. Explicit slash. Rated M for sexy times.


_**Wilson starts sleepwalking, and it leads him somewhere unexpected**. (Don't like man-o-man-o then don't read.) **Explicit Slash.**_

_**Rated M- for sexy times.**_

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans._

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Everything smelled overwhelmingly of bleach.

He groaned, pulling a hand to his face and rubbing his eye. Why did his bed smell of bleach? House had probably screwed up the washing. _Again_. Mixing up the washing powder with bath salts and conditioner with bleach, like he did the last time he was given that basic task. Wilson makes a note to himself to label everything clearly for the next time so House couldn't use the ignorance card he was so fond of using.

Since when did his bed get so damn hard, not to mention cold. And where was the blankets? And the sheets. And the pillows.

Scratch that. Where was his damn bed?

He coaxed his sticky, sleepy eyes open to find himself face down on the bathroom floor, floor cleaner in his right hand, a floor scrubber tucked under the crook of his left arm. A blue bucket of what he assumes is warm water sat, propped up against the bath. This was either a sophisticated prank on House's part to get Wilson thinking he had amnesia (unlikely, but with House anything is a possibility) or he has really been cleaning during the night. The strategically placed cleaning items suggested the former, but the fact that the bathroom was spotless and smelled like it had just been freshly cleaned within an inch of its life suggested the latter. House was a slick prankster but there was no way he would spend a night, on his knees, scrubbing the bathroom from top to bottom.

Stumbling up from the floor, he dumped the bottle of floor cleaner onto the sink and kicked the scrubber to the side. The dim, hazy hue that seeped through the windows told him it was morning. Just. About six o'clock if he had to hazard a guess. House wasn't up yet, so if he was quick enough getting changed he could avoid the inquisition about why he slept on the bathroom floor and why he stank of floor cleaner.

House isn't up for another half an hour, but when he rises he's like a whirlwind. Well, a whirlwind with a limp. He's washed, changed and dressed in a little under ten minutes and he sweeps Wilson's pancakes off the kitchen counter like it's the last meal he'll ever eat before stuffing them whole into his mouth, one by one.

"You hungry?"

House tries to mumble some words but the pancake sticks to his teeth. He takes a few more chews before his mouth is clear. "My hot patient has begun vomiting blood. I don't think she'd appreciate me savouring the taste of your pancakes first before actually saving her life." He wipes his mouth, sending crumbling bits of pancake onto the floor. "Bring some to work though. I need something apart from my sarcasm to get into her pants."

"Well that's ethical." Wilson picked up the discarded plate. "Is she really that hot though?"

House nodded, a flicker of his inner horny teenager flashes across his eyes. "I bagged her first though. Don't start sticking your caring, people pleasing, super cancer doctor oar in there."

Wilson raises his hands. "She's all yours."

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* * *

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He jerked himself awake, sending a plate of lemon chicken resting on his knee, to the floor.

Three-thirty in the morning and he was sitting with a plate of lemon chicken. Freshly made lemon chicken to be exact. He can tell by the cooking smells and the fact there is a pan stuffed awkwardly in the sink. The question he asked himself was not why he was sitting here so early in the morning with food on his lap, but _how_.

This could be a dream, an hallucination perhaps. But who the hell hallucinates eating chicken?

He picks the remnants of the chicken from the floor and dumps them on the coffee table before padding to the sink to wash the dishes. A familiar bellow rolls down the corridor.

"Wilson! What the hell are you cooking?"

He hastily runs the water and scrubs the plate as clean as possible without making too much noise. "Nothing."

"Well I'm either having a stroke or I have moved into a lemon factory." House pops his head around the wall. "Why are you cooking at three-thirty in the morning?"

"I'm not. I'm just washing."

"Washing...some freshly used cutlery. Have you got the munchies or something? Have you been smoking that good green stuff designed for your patients?"

Wilson bathed the plate in the soapy water. "So what if I have?"

"Seriously?"

A firm glare shot House's way. "No." He let the excess water drip from the plate before settling it on the counter and drying his hands. "I know this is a stupid question but...um...have I been weird recently?"

House furrowed his brows. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer the question."

"Wilson, you're always weird. You cried at The Lion King. You know all the words to the songs in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. You iron your socks and underwear. You're an Oncologist by _choice._ You are inherently weird."

"The Lion King is sad. His dad dies." Wilson sighed. "You know what, I'm tired. It doesn't matter. Forget I said anything."

"Do you think you've been weird?"

"I dunno. That's why I'm asking you."

House paused. "No. You're no more weird than usual."

Wilson nodded and tossed the towel next to the sink. "Good."

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* * *

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How the hell did he end up on the New Jersey Turnpike? And at four in the morning.

He wasn't even in his pyjamas. No. No. He was dressed for work. Expensive shoes, mismatched shirt and tie, long overcoat. The only thing missing was his briefcase. Was he even going to work? Obviously not because he wouldn't be on the Turnpike. He wasn't coming from work, because, again, he wouldn't be on the Turnpike. He wasn't on call. He had absolutely no reason to be here.

But here he was. Perched at the side of the road a few miles from the exit for Princeton, smartly dressed, hair in place, a dreary phone-in programme spilling out from the radio. He could deal with not remembering cleaning the bathroom. He did it all the time, it was somewhat of a default setting and it's not like everyone remembers every time they've cleaned a bathroom, unless it was spectacularly dirty and grim. Even the cooking was sort of passable. He had cooked a pot roast in a glazed, drunken stupor at two in the morning before and had no issues, apart from Julie moaning about the spillage on the floor the next morning. But driving without having any recollection of doing so? Well that's just worrying.

This definitely wasn't an hallucination or a dream.

Being an Oncologist, he immediately jumps to the worst conclusion. He's dying. He has an inoperable brain tumour that's giving him retrograde amnesia. He's got six weeks at best. A few months if he is extremely lucky. But he's going with the six weeks as luck is never usually on his side.

Now he has to call his mom, his brother, his other brother. Tell Cuddy, tell House, tell all his patients.....

This was silly. He was being ridiculous. Nevertheless, he was still concerned about driving back to the apartment without any caffeine coursing through his system.

He takes the exit off for Princeton and hits the first 24-hour diner he can spot. He doesn't care if the coffee is good, if it's instant or if it has any sugar in it. He just needs it as some sort of defence against falling asleep at the wheel.

The coffee he ends up getting tastes like crap but it was better than nothing at all, and when he arrives home he finds House watching New Yankee Workshop at an obscenely high volume.

"Did somebody have a hot date?" House pauses the TiVo.

"Dressed like this?" Wilson gestured a hand to his body, highlighting the fact he was wearing his work clothes.

"Some women dig the over-worked Oncologist look."

"Yeah, well, not tonight." Wilson tossed his empty cardboard cup into the trash.

"So where have you been at this ungodly hour?"

"The Turnpike."

"You had a date at the New Jersey Turnpike? Wow, you're turning into a cheap date. Maybe next time you could venture all the way up the interstate."

Wilson shrugged off his jacket and took a seat on the couch. "What bizarre implement is he wielding tonight then?

"A chainsaw. He nearly sliced the other guys arm off before. It's only a matter of time before he kills that guy."

"Good times."

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* * *

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Everything smelled overwhelmingly of sweat.

The air was heavy and so warm it was almost distracting.

"Wilson!"

A whoosh of air blew past his face before a damp palm touched his cheek.

"Wilson!"

He shook open his eyes and snapped them shut almost immediately to make sure this definitely was not an hallucination. Carefully, he prized one eye open and looked down to find House eyeing him up curiously.

"Why have you stopped?"

"Stopped what? What?" Holy shit, he was naked. Wilson froze, his body clenched as he flushed with embarrassment. He looked back down, this time both eyes open, to see that House was also naked. Naked and somewhat confused.

"Are you okay?"

"Are we having sex?"

"Well if you call penetration sex, then yeah. We are. You've been riding me for about ten minutes."

At this point Wilson would usually think about bolting because this was just beyond the realms of what was comprehensible in his mind. He was having sex with House. He was having sex. With House. On House's bed no less. But it felt too good to just leave it there. "Oh," was all he could muster before reaching his hand around the back of House's damp neck and savouring House's lips on his.

He forged ahead, pushing his tongue into House's seeking out the warmth of the older man's tongue. He felt House's hand strike a path through his hair, then run down his back, before grabbing hard onto his ass. House had done this before, he notes. The movement, the soft touches, the way he's shifting his hips to get the depth into Wilson's ass all indicated experience and Wilson was thankful, because he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

He took his tongue from House's mouth and moved onto his neck, planting soft kisses and trailing down to his clavicle. House was enjoying this or Wilson assumed he was, and judging by the soft moans and hard squeezes on his buttocks, Wilson was pretty sure his judgement was sound.

House pushed Wilson back up with a firm hand and began stroking Wilson's cock with the other. He started slowly, caressing the tip with deftest of touches, determined to keep Wilson on the edge for as long as possible. He could feel the warmth, the pulsing, the blood rushing into Wilson's cock as his strokes increased. Wilson was slamming down hard now, his ass meeting House's pelvis with a satisfying thud. He was close, so close. If only House would go that little bit faster.....

His prayers seemed to have been answered as House began shifting his hips up and down once again and tugging his shaft with ferocious speed. It only took a few moments before he spilled all over House's torso, his back arched, the bed sheet grasped and curled in his hands. House followed a few seconds later in far less dramatic pose, but a ultimately satisfied one.

"Wow." Wilson pulled himself off gently and rolled over onto the bed.

"Likewise." House grabbed a dirty t-shirt from the floor and cleaned his chest. A few good washes and that should be fine to wear again.

"Bluh." Wilson would try and speak English if his brain started working properly again.

"I'm gonna take that whole lost for words thing as a good thing. I'm actually pretty smug right now."

"You're always," Wilson wiped the excessive sweat from his forehead. "Pretty smug."

"True." House carefully manoeuvred himself off the bed and headed towards the bathroom. "So you enjoyed it?"

Wilson nodded vigorously.

"Well if that's the case," House smiled. "Then you should sleepwalk more often."


End file.
